


No one likes fish

by Kaiyo_no_Hime



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Drinking, F/M, fish in drinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:48:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiyo_no_Hime/pseuds/Kaiyo_no_Hime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>York is drinking alone at a bar when Carolina spots him playing with his lighter.  Pre Project Freelancer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No one likes fish

**Author's Note:**

> I never refer to York or Carolina by name because this takes place before Project Freelancer and I don't know their real names. But yes, this story is about, and only about, York and Carolina. Because I'm sweet on their pairing.

Generally, it could be said, she did not enjoy the cloying sweetness of the drinks that her friends always seemed to order. She had asked what the point was to drink liquor if you couldn't feel the scald of it, but they had all laughed and offered her another peach colored drink.

She had gotten known as that girl who drank whiskey straight after that.

It's why she spotted him, sitting alone at the busy bar, with just a lighter to keep him company. Her friends were all sharing a pitcher of neon green sugar, ans she had gone to rescue something that burned properly on the way down from its glass prison. He was just a little icing on the cake.

“Hey there soldier,” she smirked, “Didn't your mother ever teach you it's not polite to play with fire and not share?”

The man blushed up to his ears and she grinned. He was adorable, his skin flushed, his blonde hair disheveled, his hands still nervously fumbling with the lighter. It was like watching a puppy trying to sit, and jump, and wag its tail all at the same time.

“Whiskey, on the rocks. And he'll take the same,” she told the bartender, and looked back down at the blonde.

“Wait, but,” he stammered, his lighter flicking six more times.

“It's a bar, not a ball game lighter boy,” and, with that, she grabbed the bottle of beer he had been carefully nursing all night, and finished it with three long pulls.

He smiled. And while he knew this wasn't love, it was a nice surprise on a bad night. There was a war going on, there was no time for love. But for pretty red heads with attitude? Epics began like this.

As did some fairly spectacular pornos, he thought to himself.

“There's a nice hole in the wall three blocks over that will light anything you order on fire if you ask nice enough,” he smiled, waggling his eyebrows.

And he was rewarded with a wide mouth, head thrown back, full belly laugh. He was no longer arguing with his mind; this was amazing. And he didn't care that he was a soldier that might die tomorrow, or that she probably had the same fate engraved into her soul. He just wanted to go with her to some tiny little dive bar and spend the night setting things ablaze and drinking them with her. Hell, if he got drunk enough he might even work up the courage to kiss her.

“Finally, a use for all those etiquette lessons mother made me take,” she downed both tumblers of whiskey, “Come on, I've always wanted to see a mozzarella stick burn.”

He grinned, and left some cash on the bar. No, he was definitely going to make sure he was drunk enough to kiss her. And maybe even convince her to kiss him back.

***Many drinks later***

“This is not a thing,” she argued, staring at the glass tumbler in front of her.

“It's a thing,” he replied, ignoring his own glass to stare at hers, “I think there's a fish in there.”

“There's a pepper, a lemon slice, and a cherry in there. And it's on fire,” she pointed out, “I don't think there's a fish. There's no room for a fish!”

“Look, see, by the lemon slice next to the cherry,” he pointed, trying not to giggle and failing.

She looked closer, and then just glared at her drink.

“There's a fish in my drink! How is it even alive? It should be on fire.”

“The drink is already on fire,” he pointed out, watching the fish, barely more than a minnow, dart behind the pepper.

“Your drink looks like a four year old's birthday party,” she snapped, glaring at the neon pink, frosting coated beverage.

“It's on fire,” he replied.

She continued to glare at the pink concoction. And then she glared at the fish in her own glass. 

“Four year olds don't have birthday parties on fire,” he babbled, “It's just not done. They have ponies. And pink things. It's very boring.

“Your fish is still not on fire.”

She made up her mind between glaring at the two glass, and then turned to him with an evil grin, “On three.”

“One,” he agreed.

“Two,” she lifted her glass.

“Three,” they both blew out the flames and downed their rather generous shots.

And, then, as she was about to stick the pepper in her mouth, he kissed her. He would have liked to say that it was an amazing kiss and that stars erupted all around then and the universe was suddenly perfect.

But it was not.

It was a sloppy, more than slightly drunken kiss, and she pulled back with a face. She glared at him, and then pursed her lips and he sputtered and reached for an empty glass to pretend to drink from so he could hide from the situation. He had no doubt that she could kick his ass, drunk or not.

“You taste like a cupcake,” she accused.

“You taste like olive oil,” he huffed, stealing the pepper from her glass, “You didn't drink the fish?”

The fish, tiny little minnow that it was, lay flopping around on the bottom of her glass, gills gasping madly for water. He rather felt sorry for the little thing, he could sympathize with it. 

“I don't like fish,” she answered, and then leaned in close whisper in his ear, “But I do like cupcakes.”

He choked on the pepper and she stole another kiss. It took him a moment for his brain to catch up and realize that she had stoled the pepper back as well. With a lazy grin she pulled the stem out of her mouth, chewing on the stolen fruit.

“How do you feel about cherries,” he smiled, snagging the bright red fruit and rolling it gently over his tongue.

“A little sweet for my taste,” she smiled wickedly, pulling him in close.

Her tongue darted across his lips, swollen by alcohol and capsicum, and then darted for the cherry. His mouth worked against her, hiding the fruit hither and nither, and then his hands were at her sides, sliding her onto his lap as he surrendered the prize.

“We're out of fruit,” she pointed out, staring at the crushed lemon in the glass.

“There's still always the fish,” he smiled, pulling her into another kiss.

The universe wasn't perfect, there weren't stars erupting all around them, and he didn't even know her name. But it was a good kiss, a damn good kiss, and it was a damn good night.


End file.
